


Case #0132506 - Desecrated

by LeanMeanSaltineMachine



Series: (we) have seen what the darkness does [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Fan Statement, Feelings of Being Hunted, Feelings of Being Watched, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Harm, Self-Insert, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Dark nonsense, takes place s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeanMeanSaltineMachine/pseuds/LeanMeanSaltineMachine
Summary: Statement of Lee Kalisz regarding growing up in their first childhood home. Original statement given June 25, 2013.
Series: (we) have seen what the darkness does [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756228
Kudos: 8





	Case #0132506 - Desecrated

**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags and take care of yourself please! for more specific information about the tags, please see the end notes. ^_^ everything you're about to read is true. make sure you're in the right state of mind for a statement and s4 content, even if it does involve jondaisy friendship.

I don’t know where to start. How to explain what I saw. It began when I was born - before then. Sometimes I think they tried to - well. It wasn’t about me. Not at first. It _became_ about me, when I could see them. But it was just the house at first, I think. The way some things are just - haunted. Lived in. Cursed. That was this place: rotten and septic, deep to its core.

My parents bought the house because it was cheap. They didn’t have a lot of money, but they liked that it was close to a school, and the neighborhood wasn’t too bad. Lots of kids. An ice cream truck that came by regularly. Sidewalks for bikes. The building was old, a fixer-upper, with old boards and falling shingles and a shared driveway full of cigarette butts and neighbors wafting marijuana smoke into open windows. Maybe that’s why I find the smell of cannabis comforting, rather than a moral failing.

Before I was born my mother would hear footsteps on the stairs when she was home alone. See things in the corner of her eyes. Once she received a letter to join a coven - it refused to burn. She laid in bed and felt a presence join her that was not my father. When she looked, there was no one there. Another night she woke to find hoods standing over her that then disappeared one by one. In the final story she shared, she was almost dragged from her bed and barely held on by the headboard. I would hold on too, some nights; feel the creaky wood under my fingertips, the smooth varnish, and I was grateful that my mother had made it. That I had lessons on how to be strong.

I suppose it is with little surprise I tell you that I have a mild fear of the dark, and had insomnia until I was 16. Even now, sleep is something that comes late, and the light of day is a blessing on my closed eyelids.

You ask if I have come to make a statement about my mother. No. She has her own lifetime of stories - stories that she has passed on to me as training, and as warnings. I like to think I wear them well, when they do not haunt me. No - I simply wish to share the stories of the house, the things I saw, to try and make sense of things. There must be some sense to things.

I was so young. Sometimes I think they were the fancies of a young mind: the way the wasps circled lazily overhead if you came too close. The bees that danced in and out of dreams. The sprickets that slowly crept over the stairs and began to watch us with intelligence in their eyes, hoping we saw them. The roaches that guarded our storm shelter which was swathed in thick, thick cobwebs and uncaring daddy longlegs that only served to crawl into my hair and make me cry.

Did I imagine, too, the hunted feeling? The eyes of that building, following me as I left its protective arms? You see, that place was a terror, but there is no place like home when the world is full of cruel eyes who spy on you. The world makes you the protector The world grows you up far too fast.

“Older than your years,” they told me. “An old soul.” I looked out at them with ancient eyes, and I did not sleep, and I watched the house welcome me back. I watched my father bargain with the shadow figure at the top of the stairs not to push his children down, and I learned that crying made you a baby and far too sensitive.

In the dark, I lay in my parent’s bed, for while my mother had told me these stories of unsafety my own bed was so much worse, with the whispers that came for me and the screams of my younger brother so much closer. (He had nightmares: the bees that danced so cruelly and told him horrible things. I too had nightmares, but silently, and sometimes I was also awake.) For this waking/sleeping nightmare, a tree left the forest, thumping and shaking the ground. The very foundation rattled as it inexorably came for me. I turned and watched the doorway for a long time, but it never came. Instead, the twisted branches reach for me, and sometimes I see snarling faces in the bark. They never have the strength to stay for a second blink.

In another waking moment I saw an angel. He was beautiful. Resembling my father from his wedding portrait, he stood in my parent’s bedroom, observing, and then disappeared. I shared this news with my family at breakfast - what news, to have seen an angel! But it was not to be. Instead, I had seen a hunter, stalking. He had found me, all of us, sleeping - but at least I had sat up. I had seen him back.

Humanoid shadows dripped from the walls to puddle on the floor. Sometimes the shadows were just shadows. We walked through those. Sometimes the shadows were deep, and dark, and cold, and they whispered things just out of comprehension. Sometimes I thought I understood the meaning, though not the words, and I was terribly afraid.

I began to go to my little brother when he screamed; I began to see what he saw. Once, after a nightmare, masks stared at him as he buried his face into our mother’s side. I stared at the masks. One could be spared to stare back at me.

We moved when I was eight to a better, less haunted house, neglecting to tell the new owners any of our experiences.

I’m not even sure what I want from you. What I expect you to investigate. It’s not like you’ll send in a priest. Besides, we already did that - the things stayed. You want to take tests? Check my psyche, the water supply, the dirt? Go for it. I’m seeing a therapist now.

I just want someone to tell me it’s real. That this was real, and I’m real for being scared of the growling, for being afraid of going into the house alone, for being traumatized.

You know, sometimes I still see those figures and hoods in my dreams. I see eyes flicker at me from schools and other homes, and I never know if they’re kindred spirits or if it’s the same thing watching. But maybe -

Maybe it’s time I go hunting them back.

Statement ends.

I suppose that’s one way to fall to the Hunt. You can be chased over and over again your whole life, and told by your parents that they have been chased as well, so you can only assume you will always be chased, and so you decide to become the chas _er._ [a sigh] It makes a certain amount of sense.

[a pause]

But it was more about justice for you, wasn’t it?

DAISY:

Yeah. People needed saving. Seemed the best way to do it.

THE ARCHIVIST:

Hm.

DAISY:

I don’t think they actually became a Hunter.

THE ARCHIVIST:

No?

DAISY:

Mm. No. Not enough anger.

THE ARCHIVIST _[laughing slightly]_ :

What, you need to be angry to be a Hunter?

DAISY:

You need some strong emotion to tap into it. Anger, rage, protection - it all serves a purpose to make you ready to Hunt. Sounds like your statement giver was just numb. Wanted it to be over.

THE ARCHIVIST:

I mean. They were a _little_ angry.

DAISY _[humoring him]_ :

A little angry. Enough to not be afraid anymore. Enough to not be worth feeding on.

THE ARCHIVIST:

Hmn. _[a pause]_ I suppose you’re right. Still feel like I should check in though. See how they’re doing.

DAISY:

Jon --

THE ARCHIVIST:

I’m not taking a statement, I’m not taking a statement! I have one right here, remember? I just read it!

DAISY:

Mhm.

THE ARCHIVIST:

_[sighs]_ I just want to make sure they’re alright.

DAISY:

...You think you can do anything to help?

THE ARCHIVIST:

I have to try.

DAISY:

_[a big, heavy sigh]_ Right then, don’t do anything stupid.

THE ARCHIVIST:

Heh, I’ll try for that too.

[silence]

I will try very, very hard.

**[tape recorder clicks off]**

**Author's Note:**

> child harm - there's a figure of The Dark that threatens to push children down the stairs, the house is generally a Bad Place for kids, and the narrator grows up way too fast trying to protect everyone
> 
> bugs - The Corruption is pretty strong in the basement and dreams, only mentioned strongly in one paragraph. bees in a few sentences throughout the fic.
> 
> feeling hunted/watched - strong theme throughout the entire fic, daisy and jon talk about the narrator possibly going Hunt after the statement ends
> 
> \--
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading! get some water, stretch, and leave a comment about your favorite phrase or if you think jon should just stay put. (he won't, we all know this haha.) see you in the next fic!


End file.
